Remembrances
by BiteMeTechie
Summary: Willow wants nothing more than to forget...but she can't. Neither can Spike. At least, not without her help. The only trouble is, he doesn't want her help.
1. Chapter 1

Another city, another bar...

Another drink that Spike can't really taste.

Whiskey's long since lost its novelty for the vampire, but it's a small comfort that he takes whenever he can get it, even if he doesn't really pay much attention to the quality or the flavor anymore.

The whole world's been rather gray since the last time he saw Sunnydale…since the last time he saw the Slayer…

Everything is tasteless and empty and _dull…_

Even sex has lost its appeal. Just no point anymore, really.

Sure, when he enters a room, his eyes still sweep over the inhabitants predatorily, taking in the most gorgeous specimens--some of whom even give him an appreciative glance--but the thrill is gone. He used to relish the chase; the _hunt_ was just as enjoyable as the capture of his prey--either as his dinner or as his lover--but now…

Now it's just not the same.

Every night is an endless cycle of drinking and slaying, always moving forward so that he doesn't sit still long enough to think about the past, but occasionally…

Occasionally the past comes back to haunt him, the same way it haunts us all. Our pasts lurk close at our backs, waiting to spring when we want to remember least…

Such as it is tonight when his eyes make their circuit around the room and they hang on a flash of brilliant red that has caught the low lamplight in a corner and memories slam into him of a portion of his unlife he'd rather not revisit.

Willow.

Her head rests on her hands on the table as she stares at a half empty bottle of scotch, and it's obvious that she's not really seeing what's in front of her. She's far away, in the land of best forgotten memories where alcohol tends to take you if you spend too much time in its company.

His feet carry him towards her of their own accord, as though he's dragged towards her by a magnetic force he can't understand, much less try to resist. Even as he's moving, he wonders…

Maybe he's more masochistic than he wants to admit…maybe he wants to be near her and remember things he shouldn't…

Or maybe misery really _does_ love company.

She's completely sotted. He can smell it on her. The stench of liquor on her is so thick and heavy that it's obvious to his finely sharpened senses that she's one drink away from alcohol poisoning.

Foolish chit.

Bleary green eyes stare up at him when he comes within touching distance of the table, blinking lazily.

They slowly fill with recognition, but her expression remains lax.

"Spike."

Her voice is harsh, like that of a chain smoker, but he knows that it's emotion that closes her throat so, not outside influence.

"Red."

Long, pregnant silence descends between them before she gestures clumsily at the chair across from her. "Sit down. Have a drink."

"I think you've had enough, pet."

Her upper lip twitches into a bitter parody of the brilliant smile she used to have. "There's no such thing."

When she reaches for her glass his hand shoots out to grab her wrist to stop her.

He doesn't know _why_…doesn't grasp why he's suddenly in the mood to be protective when usually he doesn't give a damn about anyone else…

Electricity races along his skin and she glares up at him, some of the spark of the witch he used to know behind the drunken eyes. "Let me go, Spike."

His grip on her wrist tightens and the power that threatens to spill off from her and at him is almost tangible. He knows he's playing with fire…knows that if she focuses at him she can thrust him across the room and through a wall…

But Spike is used to playing with fire. Drusilla was flame…so was Buffy…

He seems to thrive on danger and Willow…Willow, the once good, pure witch is now absolutely _deadly_.

"Where's your girl, Red? I'm sure she'd not like to see you here gettin' blasted without her."

"Kennedy's gone." Her brow furrows. "Everyone's gone." She looks up at him again, smiling rancorously at him. "Everyone but you and me."

Some of the tension drains from between them suddenly and she tugs her arm away from him. "The Goddess has some sense of humor, huh, Spike? Of all the people I knew in Sunnydale, I never pegged you and I as being the ones to walk away from it intact."

"Only intact in the most basic sense of the word, Red."

"You're standing here, aren't you? Solid as I am." Drunkenly, she stands and puts her hands on his shoulders to steady herself. "Yup. Solid."

"Solid but far from whole."

"Wholeness is overrated. Trust me, I found that out the hard way." She sways and his arms catch around her waist to keep her upright. "I was whole. Tara _made_ me whole…but she's gone and now I'm in pieces again, aren't I? And you know what, Spike? I _like_ being in pieces. You can't be broken again if you're already in pieces."

He wants to argue the point, but she's right.

And he hates it.

"I'm taking you home."

"Oh no you're not. I'm going to stay here and drink until I don't know my own name anymore." Her fingers leave his shoulders and she gestures with them inelegantly. "I'm going to _drown_ myself in scotch until Sunnydale isn't even part of my vocabulary anymore. Let me _forget_."

Spike wants to slap her. How she's allowed herself to go from the luminous young woman he used to know to this drunken waste, he can't comprehend, but he catches her hands in his and forces her to look at him.

"There's not enough liquor in the _world_, Red, take it from someone who knows…you'll never forget…and the scotch won't _make_ it happen. The oblivion will come, but it's fleeting…and it's not _forgetting_."

Willow's head lolls forward until her forehead touches his chest, resting there as though her neck hasn't the strength to hold her head up anymore. "I _like_ the oblivion. It's better than clarity."

Spike can scarcely dispute this; after all, he's had so much more experience with drowning his sorrows than she has…but he still feels as though he can't let her continue to destroy herself…

But his momentary focus on chivalry is taken away as she lifts her head and looks at him with something very foreign and very _wrong_ in her expression…

Her lips brush against his once.

Twice.

Three times.

And he knows she's not in her right mind because his Willow--the one he tormented oh-so-long-ago--would never crush herself to a vampire so desperately in the corner of a seedy bar in the middle of nowhere.

She tastes like her drink of choice, but there's something else there. Something that's decidedly _Willow_ in her essence as she kisses him without any skill at all and for the first time in a long time, he finds that the rest of the world…the past…it's all melted away into darkness somewhere behind him.

This is the first time in years that his memories are blotted out of existence by something other than violence or alcohol and the seconds tick by, all thought of what he left behind gone from the forefront of his mind.

He forgets.

As their mouths mate and he tugs her towards the door, he forgets it all…

They are precious moments in which he is completely in the here and now, with no reflections of the past to bother him, even as they meet the cool night air in an alleyway behind the bar and suddenly, a rush of magic leaps from the woman he holds so desperately in his arms.

She pulls away from him, looking as though the weight of the universe has settled on her shoulders and she touches his face tenderly. "_Forget._"

All goes black.

---

Willow leaves Spike stunned in the alley, tears streaming down her face as his pain adds itself to hers, but she doggedly stumbles onwards, knowing she's done the right thing.

She has done this for all her friends, tracking them down one by one to perform the spell she's just used on Spike…a spell that allows her to take their pain and regret and tuck it away in the deepest part of her soul where they won't be hurt by it anymore.

She modifies their memories just enough that they aren't crippled by the agony of their recollections, taking their sorrow for herself so that they can move on.

To take their pain for herself and allow them go on with their lives is Willow's gift to the people who mean the most to her. She'll never be able make her own pain vanish, but with the power she has caged within her, she _can_ lighten the loads of those she loves.

Besides, the world doesn't need the Scoobies anymore…there are thousands of slayers waiting in the wings to stop the next apocalypse, should there be one on the horizon.

Those who defended Sunnydale for so long have suffered enough.

They deserve a rest.


	2. Chapter 2

It's Spike's vampiric instincts--honed like a finely sharpened razor blade from more than a century's use--that rouse him from the stupor left over from Willow's bewitchment; specifically the ones that are screaming at him that dawn is approaching, and that if he doesn't want to be nothing more than a big pile of ash, he'd best seek shelter soon.

His head is muddled, thoughts disorganized and disjointed, as he scrambles as gracefully as he can off the pavement in the alley. His head is throbbing with a thick, heavy beat which shouldn't be there without a pulse to match it, but it's there none-the-less, pounding against the sides of his skull like a bad hangover.

Somewhere, beneath the chaos of topsy-turvy half formed concepts ricocheting about in his head, he knows what happened. Despite his initial confusion, instinctively, he _knows._

The trace of failed magic clings to him, hangs in the air around him like a visible, solid, physical presence, as he stomps drunkenly toward the nearest abandoned warehouse to wait out Apollo's circuit across the sky and collect his thoughts.

The air is thick with dust as he yanks open the heavy steel sliding door and slips inside, and he has to wave a hand around to clear his immediate field of vision of the particles of dirt that dance before him in the half light that leaks in through one of the tiny, high set windows from the street lamp outside.

The place is far from being sun proof--only a few shadowy spots could possibly serve as his refuge--but there _is_ a shipping container off in the corner that has his name plastered all over it.

Spike's gait is slightly wobbly as he makes his way to the shipping container, but he shakes his head to empty it of the supernatural cobwebs that Willow's botched spell have left behind, and reaches his sanctuary with a much clearer head.

He flops down inside, one hand rubbing his temple roughly as he works to piece together what series of events led up to his current predicament.

Last night is a blur of images and scents and tastes, blended together into an incomprehensible haze, one memory pressing in on the boundaries of another until they don't make sense anymore.

He was drinking, he knows that much. He was drinking in hopes of dulling his memories and casting aside the pain burrowed deep in his chest, but he was failing.

Yes. That much he remembers.

He remembers…

He _remembers…_

Spike's brow furrows and his eyes clamp shut as he struggles to grab hold of the fleeting image and make sense of it.

Red. Bright, brilliant, beautiful _red_ caught in the soft, low light of the bar…

Willow. Willow was in the bar. Yes, now he remembers.

Unconsciously, he licks his lips in recollection of the way she'd tasted when she kissed him. His nostrils flare as he remembers the scent of her--heady, invigorating…almost as intoxicatingly addictive as the alcohol that had been on both their breaths.

The alleyway. They had moved as one, clinging to each other as though they wanted to become one entity, out into the cool night air of the alleyway, free from the stench of liquor and smoke inside the bar, left to revel in each other until…

His eyes fly open as the picture of her tender, heartbroken look as she touched his face compassionately and spoke a word he can't remember hits him.

He remembers the feeling of his mind meshing with hers, mentally accomplishing what he'd wanted to achieve with their bodies, and he feels the warm flood of fear, anguish and…

Affection. Bittersweet, tragically strong affection.

Affection for _him_. Affection for all those she'd known in Sunnydale.

Affection that has driven her to do something incredibly foolish--potentially dangerous…

Spike's hand worms its way into the pocket of his duster, withdrawing a cigarette.

He props it between his lips and extracts his lighter from the other pocket, flicking the lid off and lighting up as he reflects on what the stupid witch was trying to do for him out of truly ill-advised devotion.

A puff of smoke highlights the dust that's floating around inside the shipping container, and his face wrenches itself into an unattractive scowl, marring his ordinarily handsome features and making him look far older than he should.

Willow had tried a memory modification enchantment on _him_?

Certainly, he reasons, her motivations were noble enough, but he can't let this stand. He can't let her think she can just go mucking about inside people's brains, changing things as she sees fit out of some misguided sense of duty and _loyalty_.

Spike takes another drag, staring straight ahead, yet seeing nothing, too consumed by his thoughts to be aware of his surroundings.

He's got to find her.


	3. Chapter 3

It's a conspiracy, Willow thinks, staring at the ugly lemon yellow wallpaper from her vantage point on the bed.

All hotels look exactly alike.

This one is exactly like the one she had in Las Vegas when she went to find Xander…the same as the one in New York when she went to find Dawn…

The colors are different, but for all intents and purposes, it's like being stuck in the same place night after night--but without the comfort of that place being _home_.

She's always moving, and yet somehow, always standing still. Like she's stuck in a hamster wheel.

It'd be funny if it weren't so pathetic.

A breath escapes her in a melancholic sigh and she thinks about getting up and going out to find something to eat.

She glances at the door for a moment before her eyes slide back over to the wall to resume staring at the same exact spot they had been studying before.

She may be hungry, but she just…doesn't feel like it. The effort of getting up and going somewhere to find dinner isn't very appealing, no matter how good the aforementioned dinner might taste.

_Besides,_ Willow rationalizes, _it's raining. It's all muddy and yuck outside._

She stares at the wall for several moments more, wondering if she really wants to spend the energy it would take to reach for the phone and order a pizza.

It just seems like so much _trouble_ for something as trivial as avoiding starvation.

Yet…she turns and reaches for the phone.

The witch doesn't bother with the phone book--that's what information is for, after all--gets ahold of the nearest pizza joint and places her order.

When she's finished, she doesn't make the effort to set the old rotary phone back on the nightstand, she just allows it to stay on the bed, resting next to her thigh.

She blinks lethargically and spends an indeterminate number of minutes staring at the wall.

You would think it was her favorite pastime, often as she indulges in the activity; but this is that chronic, heavy depression--both hers _and_ that of her friends that she has relieved of their pain--pressing in on all sides making itself known.

A knock at the door shakes her out of her blank staring and like the last time she was engulfed in depression, she forgets the danger that may be lurking on the other side.

"Come in."

And just like the last time, _he_ stands there.

His posture isn't the same…he isn't giving her a predatory look…though he does have his hands braced on the doorframe…

He looks…very un-Spike-like. He looks worn and washed out.

He looks the way she feels, that's how he looks.

The second the thought flutters across her consciousness, she wonders if she really feels _that_ badly but Willow pushes it away.

"Spike."

"Willow."

She's silent, staring at him instead of the wall.

He stares back for a few moments.

Willow stands, kneecaps protesting the movement. "Spike…"

"We've already established what our respective names are, pet."

He instantly turns from weary to snarling as she tries to approach. "Don't even think about it. I want to know what you _did_."

The way he snaps at her cuts at her heart, leaving a sting in her chest to know that she'd made him this angry. "I was just trying to…trying to lighten the load."

"Don't need my loads lightened, thanks. Been carryin' 'em long enough to like their weight just fine." He shakes his head forlornly. "Why? Why did you try to fiddle around in my head, Red? Didn't those Initiative buggers and their little knick-knack do enough damage?"

"I was just--"

"S'pose you did it to the others as well, didn't you? You daft bint, when are you going to learn that people don't _like_ magic scrambling their brains?"

"You…you all need to _rest_. You too, Spike. You more than anyone!" The words are out in a frantic sob, her emotions and the emotions of the others finally overwhelming her as she collides with him, searching for comfort that only a familiar face can give, tears finally overflowing as they've been trying to do all along.

She doesn't _want_ to collapse--knows she shouldn't show any weakness with someone like _Spike_ within earshot--but she can't stop herself.

For a split second, she gets the feeling that he's going to pull back and she clings all the harder, but he doesn't retreat.

Instead, one of his hands finds itself on her shoulder and the other buried in her crimson locks, stroking her hair soothingly--if a bit awkwardly.

"None of that now." His voice is cold steel with its authoritativeness. "Where'd _my_ Red go under all that blubbering mess of emotional woman, hm? The vivacious one…the irrepressible annoyingly optimistic one?"

She laughs sharply and hiccups. Willow forgot what it was like to be _that_ one long ago…but to be reminded of the fact that's how he sees her is equal parts sweet and bitter.

Sweet because that's how he's trying to drag her out of her depression, by reminding her of the girl she used to be…

Bitter because she can never be that girl again.

Her shoulders are trembling as she takes a shuddering breath and looks up at him with her eyes streaming. "I just wanted to make things easier…let you rest."

Spike's expression softens by such a tiny margin that if she'd been anyone else, it would have gone unnoticed, and he cups her chin with one hand.

"Didn't anyone tell you, Red?"

His upper lip curls ever so slightly upwards into that trademark ironic smirk that used to be so much a part of her everyday routine she couldn't think of what life would've been like without it.

"There's no such thing as rest for the wicked."

-

A/N: I will never know _why_ I keep sending weeping women careening into Spike. -debates- To continue or not to continue, that is the question...

Nah. End. Better to end on a good strong finishing line than on an anemic one later.


End file.
